


The Wee Small Hours of the Morning

by Quesarasara



Series: The Colors 'Verse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Can be served over pancakes in a pinch, Colors 'Verse, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Family Fluff, Ficlet, Head Colds make me Sentimental, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Parentlock, The Boys Owe Molly a Pony, Vague references to IVF & Surrogacy, colorbonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-17 02:10:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2293064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quesarasara/pseuds/Quesarasara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Colors 'Verse ficlet:</p><p>How Sherlock, John and Jack became a family</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wee Small Hours of the Morning

**Author's Note:**

> A ficlet that is a drop in the big bucket of time between the last chapter and epilogue of "Colors". Alternate title: "Well, that explains a few things..."
> 
> Not responsible for tooth decay or diabetic coma that may result from reading this fic. You've been warned.
> 
> Thanks to my incomparable beta for her continued support and ruthless red pen skills.

John Watson can sleep through just about anything.

Which is a good thing, really, considering where he lives.

The flat is never really silent.  Strip away the ever present central London traffic noise, the footfalls of pedestrians, the clang and clatter of cups and forks downstairs, and the seemingly constant patter of rain against the roof and windows, and you’re left with an entirely separate set of sounds that is every bit as distracting.

A constant chorus of voices carries on at all hours ( _Yoo-Hoo, boys!_ and _Damnit, Sherlock, why is there a spleen in the crisper?_ and _BORED!_ and _Yeah, just there, like that…oh…god yes…)_ set to a soundtrack of an alternately mournful and screeching violin, accompanied by the low hum of terrible television and insistent meows, and punctuated surprisingly frequently by the explosion of a teacup hurled against the wall, or even the occasional gunshot.

John’s heard it all, and over the years he’s grown quite used to sleeping right through the never ending concert that is life in Baker Street. 

But not lately.

These days, the slightest of sounds can rouse him from what little sleep he’s getting at all.  His eyes pop open at the mere suggestion of noise from the monitor beside the bed, the crackle of static that precedes a soft, tired sigh or the tiny squeak of a yawn, or the swift intake of breath over a quivering bottom lip before the silence is broken by the cries of the newest resident of 221B.

Tonight, it’s the silence that wakes him.

Shuffling out of the darkened bedroom where he awoke alone just moments ago, John rubs a tired palm over his face as he walks through the quiet kitchen and stares for a moment into the equally deserted sitting room.   Looking toward the open door to the stairwell he sees the faint yellow glow of light where it spills down the stairs, and follows it up to the flat’s second bedroom.

Pushing open the door, his eyes adjust to the soft light of the lamp that glows in the corner of the room as he pads over to the cot against the wall and stares down at the small form sprawled out on the mattress—bundled in a soft blue fleece snap suit, tiny fingers curled up into fists next to perfect seashell ears—and counts the soft, sweet breaths huffing out through the cupid's bow of a miniature set of very familiar lips. 

“Is he okay?” John asks softly, turning to look at the man sitting on the floor next to the door, his back pressed up against the wall and long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles before him.

“Mmmhmm” Sherlock hums in quiet confirmation, his eyes trained on the regular rise and fall of the small chest visible through the bars of the cot.

John reaches down and ghosts his palm over the soft layer of downy hair on Jack Henry Watson Holmes’ head and loses himself for a moment in the awe that this creature, this tiny person, is their _son_.  He bends over presses his lips softly to a round, pink cheek and breathes in the combination of powder and new skin and warm musk and slightly sour milk and wonders at how quickly the scent has imprinted itself as the embodiment of all things good and whole and comforting and slightly terrifying all at once.  Crossing the room, he reaches out a hand and his husband takes it, anchoring him as he slides down the wall to sit next to him on the floor then pulls up his knees and leans a cheek against Sherlock’s broad shoulder. 

“How about you, then?” He asks.  “You alright?”

Sherlock tilts his neck in a half nod, and if John realizes that it’s not an answer to his question he declines to mention it, opting instead to soak up the heat of the man next to him while he joins him in watching the baby they brought home two weeks ago as he sleeps.

“He looks so much like you,” John says quietly.  “Every time I look at him I see more of you staring back at me.”

“He’s got a fair amount your family in him as well, John.”  Sherlock replies.  “That beastly tantrum he threw earlier after his bottle?  That was all Watson.”

“Give the kid a break, will you? He had gas.”

“See? Yet another way he’s like you.”

John shakes his head. “Think you’re funny, do you?”

“No, I don’t think that John.” Sherlock replies.  “I _know_ it.”

“Naturally.” John sighs, rolling his eyes and laying his head back down on Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“The irregularity on his neck, though...” Sherlock begins.

“It’s a birthmark, Sherlock.” John explains (again), sighing.  “Stork bites are really common, you know.  It may be permanent, it may fade.  Either way, I think it’s cute.  Looks a bit like a heart, don’t you think?  Or a strawberry, maybe.”

“I’m not _worried_ about it, I just find it curious.  Harry doesn’t have any similar birthmarks.  Nor do I.”

“Well, Jack isn’t you—or Harry.  He’s _himself_.”

“Hmm.”  Sherlock replies, then lets the matter drop.

They sit there for a while, in this twilight space between night and morning, and John closes his eyes and enjoys the silence.

“He’s so _small_ ,” Sherlock whispers.

“Well, yeah,” John says with a smile in his voice.  “He’s a baby.  They come that way, you know.  Makes it easier to get them out of the packaging and all.”

"Obviously," Sherlock sighs, casting him a withering sidelong glance. “He’s well within the averages for length and weight for his age, and yet every time I hold him I’m surprised at how little he is.”

“To be fair, you’ve got hands the size of dinner plates so I reckon everything seems small in those mitts of yours.”

“True enough,” Sherlock concedes, sliding his arm behind John and snaking his long fingers around his hip and squeezing pointedly.

“Yeah, yeah.  We’re a compact lot, us Watsons.” John shakes his head and raising his eyes to meet Sherlock’s and then frowning a bit.  “Is that what you’re worried about?  That Jack will be short?  Because Harry’s the tallest of us all, and I’m pretty sure there’s a herd of giraffes somewhere in your ancestry so it’s a good bet he’ll tower over me someday.”

“Don‘t be ridiculous, John,” Sherlock replies with a roll of his eyes.  “What an absurd thing to worry over.  How tall or short he eventually is makes no difference to me.  Although considering that height _is_ a dominant trait, genetically speaking, and given that half of his DNA is mine I’m fairly certain one day he’ll be able to retrieve items for you from particularly high shelves, thus leaving more of my time free for other pursuits.  Win-win, really.”

“Well, good to know you’ve not given the matter any thought.” John says, elbowing him softly in the ribs.

“Short in stature _and_ in temper.  You're nothing if not consistent.”

“Tall git,” John huffs, and snuggles closer.  “So, what are you worried about then?”

“Who says I’m worried?”

“I do,” John says.  “And I am never wrong.”

“Oh really?” Sherlock looks down his nose at him and raises an eyebrow.  “Two words:   _Amateur plumbing_.”

John shrugs. “Well, that was clearly an anomaly.” 

“Three words: _Snorkeling is fun_.”

“In my defense, it’s really not my fault you refused to wear sunscreen,” John says.  “Or that you’re practically translucent, for that matter.  I’m not sure the blame for that part of our honeymoon sits on my shoulders alone.”

“Four words,” Sherlock continues. “ _Basil needs a bath_.”

“Well, that—” John starts, then tips his head in agreement.  “Actually you’ve got me there.  Ok, I am _occasionally_ wrong.  So let me rephrase, then.  I’m never wrong about _you_.”

“Touché,” Sherlock says quietly, leaning his head back against the wall and looking back over at Jack where he’s still sleeping peacefully.

John knows Sherlock better than anyone else on earth, sees him for exactly who he is and loves him more deeply than he’d ever guessed was possible.  He knows he’ll talk when he’s ready.  He looks at him now, at this impossible man who has given him so much since the day he first saw him sitting behind that microscope.  Who just one day later gave him a reason to live again, who gave him a home, who gave him a world full of colors, who gave him the ring on his left hand, who gave him a _son_.   The least John can do is give him a little time.  He lays his head back down on Sherlock’s shoulder and waits.

“I didn’t know.” 

“Didn’t know what, love?” John asks.

“Logically, it all made sense,” Sherlock continues.  “Genetic material from two people combined through a highly developed and successful scientific process, implanted into a surrogate for the requisite gestation period and then, approximately forty weeks later, we’d be parents.  When Harry and Clara offered us Harry’s cryogenically preserved eggs it seemed as though it was the perfect set of circumstances, really.  I didn’t hesitate for a moment.”

“I remember,” John says, smiling fondly.  “You said yes before I’d even opened my mouth to speak, were up and off in a swirl of coattails while I was still sitting on the couch trying to wrap my brain around the idea.  I raised all the proper objections, you know.  Asked all the right questions—and you had an answer for every one of them.”

“I can be very persuasive,” Sherlock concedes.

“Tell me about it.” John agrees with a smile.  “And to be fair you made quite the convincing argument.”

The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirks up in a smile.  “Well, it wasn’t a terribly difficult sell.” 

“No, it really wasn’t.  I always thought I’d be a parent someday.  Supposed I’d go color for a nice girl and things would take their course.  A little wine, a wink or two, some carelessness, and nine months later I’d be someone's father.  It never occurred to me it’d be frozen eggs and petri dishes and sperm samples and a couple rounds of IVF and then thousands of pounds and nearly two years later we’d be sitting here looking at _him_.”

“Not a terribly romantic endeavor, was it?” Sherlock sighs.

“Oh I don’t know,” John says with a wry smile.  “Your participation in the process included a couple of joint visits to the clinic that ended very well for you, as I recall.”

Sherlock smiles at the memory. “That’s true.” 

“It was Molly who had the worst of it, I think.” John sighs.  “Hormone shots and morning sickness and swollen ankles and nine months of giving our baby a home—and when Hannah was just a toddler, even.  I don’t know how we’ll ever repay her.”

“The only compensation she insists upon is ‘unlimited snuggling rights’” Sherlock wrinkles his nose.  “I assume she means for Jack.”

“Sherlock Holmes, that woman carried our child inside of her body and then endured nine hours of labor to bring him into the world.  If she wants to snuggle you, you _let_ her.  Any time, any place.”

Sherlock releases a put upon sigh. "Fine."

“It was an amazing thing, though” John says, “what she chose to do for us.”

“That’s just it, John,” Sherlock says, his voice tight.  “The last few years were a long series of choices, a progression of decisions and agreements that were all made with the specific intention of creating a child.  I knew that was the goal.  And all that time this baby, this choice we’d made, he was an abstraction, an _idea_.  And now…”

Sherlock trails off, his eyes crinkling at the corners and his lips pressed together tightly as he stares intently at the tiny life lying sleeping across the room. 

“And now?” John prompts.

“And now he’s _real_.” Sherlock whispers, a hitch in his breath. “He’s not the union of a sperm and an egg, he’s not a collection of cells or a combination of genetic material, he’s not a round lump beneath a distended abdomen, he’s not the finish line at the end of a long race.  He’s Jack Henry Watson Holmes. He’s a whole new person.  He’s our _son_.  I had no idea how that would feel.”

John tightens his fingers over Sherlock’s thigh, squeezing reassuringly and swallowing against the sudden lump in his throat. 

“And how’s that, love?” John asks, and Sherlock closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“I look at him and I know that as long as there is breath in my body no harm will ever come to him. I look at him and wonder if he’ll like chemistry or football when he's in school.  I look at him and wonder who he will be when he’s three or thirteen or thirty-seven.  I look at him and I forget that he hasn’t always been here, that he’s _brand new_.   I look at him and I see _you_ , John.  I see your hands and your knees and your ears and your nose and I see you holding him close and keeping him safe.  And then I look at him and I see _myself_ —and I worry that he’ll be like _me_ , that he’ll grow up lonely and sad and there won’t be anyone there to save him, and I don’t want that for him…”

“Hey,” John says, turning toward Sherlock and sliding a palm up to cup his cheek and running the pad of his thumb over one ridiculous cheekbone and tilting his head up to look into his eyes.  “Everything you’re feeling?  Everything you think of when you look at our son?  You know what all that means?”

Sherlock stares back at him and John aches to see the fear and uncertainty in his eyes as he shakes his head slowly from side to side.

John looks at his husband with a soft smile. “It means you _love_ him.” 

“What if I can’t?” Sherlock says, his voice low and strained, and when John opens his mouth to protest, Sherlock brings a hand up and lays two fingers against his lips to quiet him.  “What if I can’t love him enough, John?  I’d been reliably informed I didn’t even have a heart before I met you—what if it’s not big enough to love _two_ people this much?”

“Our hearts don’t split into pieces according to how many people we love,” John tells him with gentle smile.  “That’s not how it works at all.  Love isn’t a finite resource, you know.   You love Jack because since he was born your heart has already doubled in size, you’ve made room for him in it along with _all_ the people you already care about—not just me.  Love isn’t about division, Sherlock.  It’s about multiplication.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and leans into the pressure of John’s warm palm against his face.  “You think so?”

“No, I don’t think so. I _know_ so.”

And with that, John leans forward and touches their lips together in a soft kiss of reassurance, of understanding, of solidarity.  He pulls back a bit and looks at his soulmate—at the colors that make up the man who gave him his; at mahogany hair and warm cream skin and berry lips and ocean eyes.

“You don’t have to worry about whether he’ll turn out like you, or like me, or Harry or anyone else you know,” John tells him.  “He’ll be himself.  And he’ll have us to love him and support whoever he turns out to be.  And to be honest, whether or not he’s like me is really the last thing you need to worry about.”

Sherlock's brow wrinkles in confusion. “What do you mean?” 

“Well frankly I’m the one person in his life thus far that’s had the least to do with who he is.  Genetically he’s you and Harry, you know.  He’s half Watson, half Holmes—and, well, at least some part of him is Hooper as well I suppose.”

“Hooper- _Strauss _, John.”__

“Yes, of course,” John says rolling his eyes.  “Thank you, as usual, for correcting me.  How would I ever know I was wrong if you weren’t here to point it out?”

“Glad to be of service.” Sherlock smiles.  “Besides, you’re wrong about something else as well.”

“What a surprise,” John replies with a grin.  “What is it this time?”

Sherlock looks at him solemnly. “Out of all the people in his life, you are the _most_ important.”

“How do you figure?” John asks, waiting for the punchline.

“Jack is a combination of my genes and Harry’s.  And Molly carried him, that’s true.” Sherlock explains.  “But what he becomes now?  That will be because of you.  We made him, but _you_ will make him a good man.”

John sucks in a shallow breath, holds it and stares at the man who looks back at him with a shy smile and soft eyes and absolutely no idea that he’s just said the loveliest thing anyone’s ever said to John Watson in all his life.  Scrambling up onto his knees, John throws a leg over Sherlock’s thighs and grabs his face between strong, tan hands and crashes their mouths together.  After a few minutes of heated snogging, John drags his mouth over Sherlock’s jaw then down to the side of his neck.  He sucks in a small patch of sensitive skin applying pressure and biting down softly, working it between his lips and teeth for a few moments, drawing blood to the surface and then releasing it to lave his tongue wetly over the red patch he’s made on the alabaster skin.  He pulls his head back and examines the mark, runs the pad of his thumb lightly over it and shoots Sherlock a satisfied smirk.

“There,” John says, tipping Sherlock’s head to the side to get a better look at his handiwork.  “Now you’ve got a stork bite of your own, just like Jack’s.  You can tell people he gets that from you.”

“And what if Jack’s mark is permanent?” Sherlock challenges.  “Are you planning on maintaining my mark indefinitely?”

John smiles. “If it comes to that, yes.”

Sherlock nods. “Acceptable.” 

“Speaking of marking you up,” John says softly, “do you know what the best part about bringing Jack into the world the way we did is?”

“Do tell,” Sherlock says, looping his arms around John’s waist and tightening his grip.

“We don’t have to wait six weeks to have a shag.” John raises his eyebrows playfully, then swoops back in for another kiss, his hands tangling into his soulmate’s curls as Sherlock’s long fingers sneak under the hem of his t-shirt and splay across the warm skin of his back.  John moans softly, the sound swallowed by Sherlock’s lips, and as he drags his mouth across a stubbly cheek and starts to suggest they go back downstairs to their own room there’s a soft sigh that morphs into a squeaky yawn behind them.

They freeze for a moment, listening—and after a few seconds there’s a sharp hitch of breath just before Jack Henry Watson Holmes lets out an impressively loud wail.

John smiles down at Sherlock, then leans forward and presses their foreheads together.

Sherlock sighs as John climbs off his lap and reaches out a hand to help him up. “He has appalling timing.”

“Yes, he certainly does,” John says over his shoulder as he walks over to the cot.  “He gets that from you too, you know.”

Sherlock watches his husband bend over and scoop their son into his arms, hears him whisper soft words of comfort against his skin, sees him press the baby to his shoulder and rub soothing circles onto his back—and feels his chest swell at the sight. 

 _John was right_ , he thinks.  _There’s plenty of room for both of them._

Twice the size, indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, comments 100% appreciated and encouraged!


End file.
